


False Lover's Knot

by ThamesNymph



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, M/M, slightly AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-08-30 06:48:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8522767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThamesNymph/pseuds/ThamesNymph
Summary: Bard used to think Thranduil's laugh was the most wonderful sound in the world. Now he thinks it the most terrible. Bard gets seduced by Thranduil, makes ill-considered decisions and finds out that Elves are very different from what he assumed. Based on stories about the Fairy Folk and medieval romances. Thranduil is awful but awesome.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little strange for me since I’m not a fan of the Tolkien movies at all, but I’ve always loved The Hobbit (the book I mean) and am familiar with the LotR books. I study literature and a friend of mine recently got me to watch the second and third Hobbit movies, I expected to hate them, and I mostly did, but I was super interested in Thranduil’s character, so I’m actually just using this as an excuse to do a literary exercise on high medieval culture and folk stories. I’m not sure how Tolkien intended Elves to be, but this story is supposed to hinge on the idea that they are very much like the Fairy Folk in myths, ballads, romances and folklore, and what an encounter of a human with their world is like. This story is mostly based on concepts in legends and romance poems like Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, the Arthurian and Grail cycles, The Mabinogion, Le Morte d’Arthur, etc. more than it is on Tolkien’s world, so please forgive any inconsistencies in terms of events, geography, etc. since I didn’t pay that much attention. Yes, I know that Bard rules Dale for a long time, but I’m ignoring this. Basically, I was very impressed with Thranduil’s majestic indifference and definitely could not resist the idea that Bard and Thranduil had a thing going.

Bard sat by the river, where it was always warm, where it was always damp with the damp of the dangerous forest, and stared into its slow, almost swampy waters. He had been Bard the Bowman, Bard the Dragonslayer, Bard the King of Dale, but now he was no one and of nowhere, not even Bard of Laketown or Bard of Dale. Everyone had a place, everyone, even the little Hobbit had been Bilbo of the Shire, Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, and now he, Bard, belonged nowhere, had no place to return to. The initial unbounded rage at the thought that it had all been stolen from him was almost faded now, he could only think, with a feeling of oppression and heaviness, that he had lost it all. Lost, through his own idiocy and weakness. The Elvenking’s cruel words echoed in his head for the thousandth time. It was his own fault, he had walked into it with eyes open, he had made a choice, but when? When had been the exact moment after which he could not turn back, when it was all sealed and inevitable? He ought never to have come of Mirkwood, and yet it was earlier than that. It was that night, after the battle, and he remembered with a shudder of sudden understanding Thranduil’s urgent, husky whisper in his ear, ‘are you sure, Dragonslayer?’ He knew now what Thranduil had been asking, now when it was too late. He tried again to summon up the rage that had first possessed him, tried to blame Thranduil, to curse him with every word he knew, but the sparks of anger would not fly from his heart. He could not blame him, he could only blame himself. Yes, it had been that night.

***************************************

It was late, very late at night when an Elf had come to summon Bard to Thranduil’s tent on the night after the battle. He had been moving for hours among all the wounded and dying and shocked, sounds of weeping and moans of agony filled the air, he had been wandering in a nightmare, people kept coming to him for instruction, for advice, for help, he had been doing what he could, bemused at everyone obeying him immediately. There seemed no end in sight of the work and the night stretched endlessly before him, then another day, another night, and so on and on, the bitter, horrible work of burying the dead, of finding shelter for the living. The rebuilding of Dale, the sowing of the fields again, seemed so far away, and it filled his breast with none of the joy that he had felt before at the thought, it seemed so unreachable. The Elvish messenger’s appearance cut short the black monotony stretching before him, and he was grateful to have something he really ought to do (see Thranduil, that was) that did not involve mud and blood and huge, pleading, frightened eyes looking into his.

  
The prospect of seeing Thranduil again was strangely exciting to him. He had never had very close dealings with the Elves before, he had spoken to them a few times, but found them strange, elusive and incomprehensible. Their laughter was free and their speech quick and merry, but their thoughts were so different from his own that he was almost frightened of them, and shrank from them. But there was deep fascination in the fear and the majestic, wilful, sly Elvenking drew Bard’s eyes and thoughts to him like a lodestone. The Elf’s poise, composure, command were so far above anything Bard could even have imagined that he almost dazzled Bard into awe. It was an honour to just look at him, let alone speak to him, the gaze of those eyes was almost too much to be borne, it seemed to reduce Bard to nothing, and moving through the army by his side, seeing ranks part before them, had been both thrilling and humbling, as though he had been moving in the outskirts of a circle of pure light. Speaking to him alone as he had done before the battle was more exciting than he could have thought possible, he felt so honoured, so enchanted, and the prospect of speaking to him again, of looking into those icy eyes that he thought he would never see again, of hearing that indifferent voice, made his heart dance and his breath come short.

  
As he came into the Elvenking’s tent, he stopped short in shock. From the cold bleakness outside, he had stepped into a calm, well-lit, warm haven. The cloth of the tent (which was heavily embroidered on the inside) was so thick that it shut out all sound from without, but Bard quickly judged that it was not merely the thickness of the cloth, but some magic. The air was laden with spices, the warmth was beyond that a mere fire (though it was very large) could fill a tent with on such a cold night. The subtle sense of enchantment and the unearthly pervaded the place, an unostentatious sort of alteration of reality that could almost be taken for granted. Thranduil himself was standing, resplendent in immeasurably rich robes that trailed carelessly on the ground after him, his hair shining eerily with starlight whiteness, his face and hair perfectly composed, as if he had never so much as seen a battle, let alone been slaughtering his enemies in their hundreds a few hours before.

  
‘Ah, Dragonslayer,’ he said, turning with a long, graceful sweep that Bard had already learned was so characteristic of him. He felt he could have recognised those composed and expansive motions among thousands, he could have known the Elvenking by the way he turned his head, the way he moved one finger, the way he focused his eyes.

  
‘My lord,’ Bard said, bowing, and was almost shocked when Thranduil inclined his head to him in turn. As one king to another, Bard thought, and the idea filled him with a most flattering sense of vertigo, as though he were on a cold, high, bright mountain and all the people of the world were bowing to him and Thranduil. ‘How may I be of service to you?’

  
‘You must not ask another king how you can be of service,’ Thrainduil replied with a smile that made Bard feel suddenly cowed. ‘I merely wanted to ask you to dine with me and my councilors.’

  
As soon as Thranduil said those words, Bard realised that he was ravenous with hunger, he had not felt it in all the work he had been doing. ‘It would be my honour,’ he replied. Thranduil gave one of his slight, subtle smiles and motioned for food to be brought in.

  
‘My army leaves at dawn tomorrow,’ Thranduil announced and Bard felt a strange jolt, a sudden sense of loss. He had not expected the Elves to depart so soon, somehow, their calm, their distance was a soothing presence. He almost wanted to cry out to Thranduil to stay for a little longer, to rest a while together, but he knew from the hard, decided tone in the Elvenking’s voice that there was to be no argument. His voice was close-grained and flexible and smooth, like ivory, like a thin sliver of ivory. ‘And before we leave,’ Thranduil went on, ‘there are things you and I ought to discuss about trade, about the land. But after we eat,’ he said, and motioned Bard to sit down.

  
The sight and smell of the food that was set before them was more rich and good than anything Bard had encountered in his life. The meat dripped with juice and the bread breathed freshness. Ripe, swollen fruit lay piled in promiscuous profusion and the fine, strong smell of the wine was enough to make one drunk. Just the sight of it all was so strange and inviting that it seemed almost enough to satisfy him. But it tasted even better than it looked, bursting with flavour. Bard had never even imagined that anything could taste so good, and there were so many things he had only heard about, cakes made of the finest grain and soaked in honey, strange meats in rich sauces. The Elves ate very elegantly, in contrast to what Bard was accustomed to, for the inhabitants of Laketown usually tore their food with their hands and ate as quickly as possible. Everyone also spoke the Common speech rather Elvish, in deference to Bard’s presence. They congratulated Bard and thanked him for the slaying the dragon, and he in turn thanked them (with as good courtesy as he could manage) for their help with food and for the Elvish healers who had been among the wounded all day and had already saved more lives than Bard could count. After this conversation, which had something of the nature of a ritual, the Elves began to speak more freely and merrily and even laughed and joked with one another and with Bard. He, however, was slow to echo their merriment, and was a trifle disconcerted to hear happy voices so soon after so much death and horror. But he supposed it was a way of the Elves and was content to simply listen to them, though his heart was heavy and aching with the thoughts of all those who had given their lives and blood that day.

  
When the meal was over, at some minute motion or meaningful glance from Thranduil, his councillors bowed and departed, leaving Bard alone with the Elvenking. It was a highly gratifying and frightening situation. Thranduil stood up and moved about like a cat poised to spring, every motion full of sinuous energy. His eyes rested on Bard with a most curious expression, predatory, challenging, appraising.

  
‘We have no time to come of any elaborate agreements now, of course,’ Thranduil said, ‘but I have traded with the men of Dale and then of Laketown for many years, and I assume we will continue to do so?’

  
‘Of course,’ Bard said, forcing himself to be on the alert. He had no idea how to conduct a political conversation about trade, but it seemed to be now forced upon him. All he had was practical knowledge of the ways and customs of exchange, none of negotiation. ‘It is almost winter now, I hope that by spring we will be able to sow the fields of Dale and continue our trade in grain by the harvest.’

  
‘Do you know where Dale’s most fertile fields lie?’ Thranduil asked.

  
Bard paused. Having lived in Laketown all his life, he had no idea of which fields near Dale were the right ones to sow. He doubted anyone did now. But to admit this to Thranduil was too humiliating. The Elf’s eyes were fixed on him, but there was none of the expected mockery in them, merely curiosity.

  
‘I will tell you, Bard of Dale,’ Thranduil said, rightly interpreting his momentary silence, ‘they are the fields that lie nearest Mirkwood.’

  
‘Ah, thank you,’ Bard said, ‘It has been so many years since we have left Dale, much important knowledge has been lost.’

  
‘I am not telling you this for your benefit,’ Thranduil said, and Bard was taken aback at his coldness, his detached rudeness, ‘I am telling you this because I want a promise from you. You may till those fields and put your cattle to pasture there, but on no occasion should anyone touch a single tree of my forest.’

  
His voice was lower now, darker, menacing, like a tiger readying to kill. He seemed taller, his eyes dusky and glowing.

  
‘I promise,’ Bard said, ‘so far as it is within my power, I will make sure no one touches any of the trees. It shall be the first law I put in place.’

  
‘Good,’ Thranduil said, his voice suddenly cheerful again, a slight smile brushing his lips, and Bard sighed in relief, as if some oppressive shadow had suddenly vanished. Thranduil sat down opposite him, toying with a cup.

  
‘I have something to ask you,’ Bard said, gathering courage, ‘a great deal of our supplies for the winter have been lost, our grain, our corn, potatoes, meal. You are a wise ruler, with much foresight and your stores must be great. Would you give aid to my people now, and we will return our debt in later years?’

  
‘And how will you return it?’ Thranduil asked, and from the slight teasing note in his voice, Bard knew that this time he was testing him. He steeled himself.

  
‘Give us…’ he formed a hasty estimate of the situation, ‘three years to establish ourselves in our new home and recover from our losses, and after that we shall pay you a tithe of our grain for ten years.’

  
Thranduil leaned back in his chair, surveying him in pleasure, and Bard knew before the Elvenking had even spoken, that he had said the right thing. There was a sort of delicious comfort at knowing that he could play at Thranduil’s game.

  
‘I agree, King of Dale,’ Thranduil said, ‘but why did you call me a wise ruler with much foresight? Are you flattering me to get what you want?’

  
A pang of fear shot through Bard. His slight lapse into self-congratulation had been misplaced. He felt as though Thranduil had struck at him with a clawed paw the second he let his guard down. He thought fast.

  
‘No,’ he answered, ‘flattery is for those who always want to be assured of their worth. You know yours. You know I speak the truth.’

  
Thranduil smiled again and gave a slight nod of satisfaction. His approval filled Bard with warmth, his sudden, vicious attacks with jarring fear. It was a most unsteadying conversation. But he did not wish it to end.

  
‘This is not the time or place to write and sign and proper treaty,’ Thranduil said, ‘but it is well we have made these provisional agreements now. We will negotiate a treaty by messengers and perhaps when spring comes, you will come to Mirkwood and we will talk about other things then, changes you may wish to make.’

  
‘I would be most grateful for your hospitality and friendship,’ Bard answered cautiously, unsure of how to properly accept this invitation, and with no wish of declining.

  
Thranduil shook his head. ‘I fear two kings cannot be friends, for as rulers, we must in some ways always be rivals.’

  
‘Allies, then,’ suggested Bard.

  
‘Allies is a word for times of war, and I hope these are times of peace, and long will be,’ Thranduil said. ‘We may be… good neighbours.’

  
‘I shall be heartily sorry to lose your friendship.’

  
Thranduil’s eyes swerved suddenly to his, imprisoning them in a piercing, sparkling grasp.

  
‘Will you?’

  
‘Yes, very sorry,’ Bard said, hardly knowing what he said, except that he wanted his beautiful creature to both look away and never do so in equal measure.

  
‘Well, then you and I shall always be friends. Not as rulers, but a king does not have to be a king day and night. Yes, we shall be friends, when we are not kings.’

  
There was a pause, while Bard looked down and Thranduil played idly with the cup in his hand.

  
‘Thank you again for all your help, with the food, and the Elves who have been healing the wounded,’ Bard said.

  
‘I told you before, your gratitude is misplaced. As for the healers, we want a healthy, profitable trade, and we cannot have that with a small and weak settlement.’

  
Bard wondered why Thranduil bothered denying that he had helped out of a sense of generosity and solidarity, for Bard did not doubt that that was exactly what it was. Perhaps the Elvenking felt he had a reputation to uphold, which Bard found almost endearing, disavowing affection for the sake of an act. He felt suddenly joyful that he could see through it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for the nice comments on the previous chapter!! Things actually happen in this one!

He was about to apologise for not being able to offer Thranduil better hospitality, but checked himself. It was degrading and servile to apologise for something beyond his control, so he said instead, ‘I hope when you next come we shall be able to give you a royal welcome and receive you in our halls with all the honour due to a king.’

Thranduil inclined his head in acknowledgement, and that strange, watchful, half-wicked look was in his eye again. The warmth of the tent was such that it crept into Bard’s very bones, he thought he had never been so utterly and completely warm before. The very air was heady and thick as though carrying heavy scents or lovely melodies upon it, sweetly suffocating, making him half-lost in weird and beguiling sensations. His skin crawled agreeably as though someone had run their fingertips over it, the weight of the air was like that of another body pressing against his. Without thinking, he opened his coat, the fur felt too close, drowning him in sluggish heat.

A brief frown flickered over Thranduil’s face and he stood up, quickly, uncoiling like a darting snake, making Bard start. 

‘You’re wounded,’ he said. This was true, there was a cut from an orc’s sword across Bard’s chest, but he had been ignoring it all day, it was shallow and he had more important things to attend to. The blood staining his shirt was now plainly visible.

‘It’s nothing serious,’ Bard said.

‘Let me see,’ Thranduil demanded, his voice was surprisingly gentle, low, almost murmuring, but it was a demand nonetheless. He was standing right above Bard now, looming over him, seeming to encompass the whole world.

Bard lifted his eyes to Thranduil’s and a sick, fevered fascination engulfed him. He had to obey, there was nothing else he could possibly do, even if he had been inclined to. Thranduil had taken away his will, had made him unquestioningly obedient to his every glance, just by the mysterious sound of his eternity-laden voice. He took his coat off and then his shirt.

‘You fool, can’t you see and feel that’s infected?’ Thranduil asked. ‘Stand up.’ Impelled by the force of his voice, Bard did so.

Thranduil reached out his hand to touch the wound, it seemed to take an age before he did so, his hand moved through the air between them with torturous slowness. Bard wanted more than anything for the Elf to touch him, his breath tight with anticipation, he was almost light-headed, he did not know where this excitement came from, it was more than the contact with a being from another species, something new and terrifying. Finally, the tips of the Elvenking’s fingers touched the wound and Bard winced in anticipation of the pain at the pressure to the tender skin, but there was none. Gently, Thranduil drew his hand along the cut and in the wake of his fingers, the wound was icy with cold, and then the most glorious, soothing warmth followed and spread from it through his whole body, like the heat of wine, but travelling along his skin. The sensation was so delightful that Bard closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again and looked, he saw that the wound was gone, only a thin red line remained of it. He had seen the healing powers of the other Elves, but they were nothing to how fast and thorough Thranduil’s was, and even then, Bard wondered why the Elvenking had not been one of those helping the wounded. But all thought vanished from his head as he looked at Thranduil, opening his mouth to thank him and suddenly unable to speak.

The Elvenking’s fingers were covered in his blood and, as Bard watched, he licked the blood off, with careful deliberation, looking at Bard all the while. Bard stood rooted to the spot with horror, following the atrocity of the Elf’s tongue carefully lapping at the blood, animal-like. It was so deeply wrong, the perversity of it felt like a violation of something sacred, the very ground was being broken open, or turning to water, he was sinking into a swamp and all solid things were failing him, he had nothing to cling onto. The air was thick in his throat, his eyes dimming with terror of this utterly foreign, dangerous being before him, whose mercy and cruelty dwelt side by side. He felt entangled in something that was dragging him down, into depths that he had always feared, into a swamp of grotesque, primal instincts mingled with refined, delicate beauty. His words still caught in his throat, mouth open but no voice given, he stood staring up at Thranduil, who was so much taller than him, though slender, his presence was overwhelming. Bard was taller than most men, but this creature was possessed of inhuman height, and Bard would have recoiled if he could, as an allured repulsion passed over him, the sense of something abominable, fiendish, at odds with every normal impulse and desire and idea, but now his mind, his will were entwined with it. How did it happen? How was it that his blood was now coating Thranduil’s lips, his eyes following the movements of the shell-pink tongue, when had he given himself to this?

Thranduil, mouth still smeared scarlet with blood, reached out his hand again and Bard would have flinched away if he could. He was sure that Thranduil was about to snap his spine, or do something awful, and, perversely, he wanted him to. Instead, the Elvenking put his hand on Bard’s bruised side and took the discoloured swelling away, doing the same to his bruised and sore shoulder and arm while he just stood there, mind numb and body terribly awake to every touch of Thranduil’s hands. He could say nothing to this beast, he simply raised his eyes to Thranduil’s face and stared, entranced, at the slight frown of concentration as he went about healing him. Quite suddenly, Thranduil met Bard’s eyes with his own and he no longer had any thought, any memory, any desire except for one thing, something he could not name but that beat furiously in his blood. He couldn’t take his eyes off the blood-smeared lips and Thranduil’s own eyes flicked to Bard’s mouth.

The thick air pulsed around them, the rich scents swirled in it. Colours danced in mysterious undulations before Bard’s eyes, he felt almost sick with want, his skin ached for Thranduil’s touch. Slowly, deliberately, the Elvenking lowered his head until their closed lips touched. Bard was too captivated to be surprised. The Elf’s breath tasted of spring. Bard opened his mouth.

Immediately, Thranduil seized a handful of his hair at the back, so hard that he could feel the Elf’s knuckles against his skull, and his tongue, slippery and sinuous and strong as a snake was in Bard’s mouth. He was so startled by the aggression, the driving violence of Thranduil’s movements that he almost stumbled and gripped the Elf’s arm to steady himself. With his free hand, Thranduil seized his shoulder and they were half-struggling, the Elf incredibly strong, quelling his twists of desperation with his slender, powerful arms. They staggered towards the bed, Bard overwhelmed and reeling, grasping the rich, textured fabric of Thranduil’s garments fiercely as though trying to keep a grasp on the familiar world, which kept slipping from him. Soon he had no memory in the world but of this indescribable creature, all thoughts of his people, his family, his home, his city, they all vanished as if they had never been, as the Elvenking’s fingers touched his body, as his nails drove into his flesh, as his teeth bruised his lips.

‘Are you sure, Dragonslayer?’ Thranduil whispered in his ear, voice rasping and breathy and fragrant with the wildness of summer storms that wring deep, pain-filled scents from the earth and leaves and grasses.

‘Yes, yes,’ Bard gasped, without the consciousness of any decision, instinctively, involuntarily. There was no pause in the violent onslaught of both the Elf and his frenzied sensations, no moment when he could consider, he simply threw his life away. Nothing existed outside the tent.

Just as he had expected earlier, there was no sleep for him that night, but it was not through taking care of the wounded and trying to find shelter. All night long, he was with Thranduil in his bed, strewn with silken cloths worked in wild embroidery, with shimmering satin, with cloth he had never seen, that lapped their bodies with cool softness. And softer than all of it was the Elf’s hair, against his skin, over his eyes, shining with its own star-like light. His skin was flawless and smooth as the firm petals of white lilies, just blossomed in the summer, and his breath rustled like velvet in Bard’s ear. No sound from beyond the tent came to them, and Bard was sure that none from them was heard outside, no one could hear their tumbling over the bed or Bard’s moans and cries (Thranduil was silent). And when the dawn came, the Elvenking stood up, towering over Bard where he lay on the bed looking up at him, as he stood all fair and fresh as newly driven snow.

‘The new day is beginning,’ Thranduil said, ‘and I must say farewell for now, Dragonslayer.’

Bard reached out and took Thranduil’s hand and kissed it. Thranduil looked down at him with a look of amusement and puzzlement, a slight frown on his beautiful face, as though he could not understand what Bard was doing.

‘You will come to Mirkwood, King of Dale?’ he asked, but it was less of a question than a command. ‘There is much to be spoken of between us.’

‘As soon as I may leave my people for long enough,’ Bard said.

‘And I shall give you a welcome fit for a king,’ Thranduil told him.

‘Is that a promise?’ Bard asked, smiling lazily up at him and retaining his hand. But it seemed that Elves had no use for the amorous games of mortals and Thranduil simply smiled his slight, frosty smile and drew his hand back.

‘Yes, and now you must dress and go to your people. We shall meet again soon,’ Thranduil said and turned away. 

As Bard was about to leave the tent, he thought of kissing Thranduil farewell, but the Elvenking was standing with his back to him, fully clad already apparently lost in thought. Instead, Bard said,

‘Farewell, my friend.’

Thranduil turned around with a look of slight surprise, as though he had forgotten Bard was there, or was surprised to see him there still. But surely Bard must have misinterpreted his expression. After all, Elves were puzzling creatures.

‘Farewell, Dragonslayer,’ Thranduil said, and turned back around, in a clear dismissal. As Bard was leaving, he turned back one last time, hoping to meet those light-brimmed grey eyes one more time, but the Elvenking had not moved, and the last Bard saw was his radiant hair in the still-darkness of the tent. He sighed and went out into the chill of the new and difficult day, the first of many such.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My computer very nicely wiped the part of this chapter, so I was just going to abandon the story in frustration, but then I started reading William Morris's 'The Wood Beyond the World' and decided to go back to it. Anyways, I guess the language in this one is a little forced and stilted... blame William Morris please. Yeah, also, there's probably not going to be much sex from now on (well, there will be, but it will mostly be implied), from now on I think it will be all about emotional Suffering (after this chapter). Thank you so much for all the lovely comments! It's been so fun to write so far!

All the rest of the winter and into the spring, Bard and his people were busy rebuilding Dale. There was much to be done, and everyone saw at once that Bard was not like other rulers, for he was always among his people, helping and advising everyone with every trade. His work had brought him into contact with many people of many countries and of many trades, and he knew a great deal about many things, more than he himself had realised. So he was always amid those that worked the hardest, and spent long evenings discussing future plans with his advisors, and made himself even more beloved by his people than he had been for slaying the dragon, for that was but the work of a moment, and now he showed that their labours were also his, so different from the Master of Laketown to whom they had been used, locked away with his gold.

But many noticed that when, after hard work all day, the men gathered in the halls about the great fires to eat and drink and tell tales, Bard sat silent, laughed little, and there was a strange look in his eyes. He often left early, and slipped away; some saw him lingering late at night on the borders of the city facing the forest. He looked out at the silhouettes of the trees against the sky and dreamed and many said that it foretold an illness and a madness to look at that forest for too long, but he was respected and revered now, and all left him to do as pleased him. The people would have been far more alarmed had they known the thoughts that he had in his mind and the longings in his heart as he looked at that forest.

As spring advanced and things settled into at least a sort of order, Bard announced that he was going to Mirkwood to speak with the Elvenking. Messengers had been sent back and forth several times finalising trade agreements, but Bard said it was imperative for him to meet with the king in person. However, none of his councillors would go with him. They said that there were evil tales of the forest and that they feared the Elves’ guiles. Bard tried to laugh them out of it, but they would not consent to accompany him. He reminded them of the services the Elves had rendered them during the battle, and the healing of their wounded. His councillors only responded that they were grateful but were very content to have the Elves as far away as possible and that all the necessary treaties could be negotiated by messengers. Finally Bard grew impatient and announced that he was going alone. He was angry and felt constrained by the narrow-minded ideas and opinions of those in the town, disgusted at their superstitious natures. 

In truth, he had another secret reason, besides the one in his heart, for going to Thranduil. He had spoken much with Dain and had persuaded him to give up the necklace of white gems that Thranduil sought. Dain would never have given it up to Thranduil himself, but gave it to Bard as a token of good faith (for the Dwarves had not prized that necklace very highly, they only prized the power it gave them over the Elvenking, so Dain had thought little of giving it to Bard). And now Bard meant to take that necklace back to Thranduil, not merely to repay him for his kindness, but as a token of his own affection. It was not a burden he could entrust to anyone else, so it was a good excuse to himself to go in person. He had said nothing about the necklace to anyone in Dale for he feared that they would think it very profitable to keep it as their property.

As he was departing from his house on the fair, bright morning, his daughter Tilda threw her arms around him and cried silently, as if in mute sorrow that he was going away forever. She was quite tall now, he realised, and it came to him that he had not noticed how fast she was growing. He looked at his children and it suddenly seemed to him that he saw them for the first time in many months, and did not want to leave them. He had been so busy that he had spent little time with them. He told himself that he would remedy this when he returned from Mirkwood.

‘Come on, now,’ he said, ‘don’t take on so, I’ll be back soon.’

Tilda drew back and looked at him solemnly. ‘How soon?’ she asked.

‘Two or three months at most,’ he said.

‘I don’t want you to go!’ cried Sigrid, clutching the sleeve of his coat in her little hand. ‘Please, don’t leave us!’ And her eyes welled with tears.

With many more reassurances that he would be back soon, and reminders that he now had many new duties, he departed, feeling a mixture of guilt, reluctance and impatience. The impatience predominated. Bard decided that he would have to see about making sure his children were educated better, and not grow up believing old wives’ tales and the superstitions of foolish old men. That might mean sending them away to a house of learning somewhere far away, but it would have to be done rather than having them be brought up in ignorance, Bard thought. All the while, Bain barely said a word and looked at him with an obedient seriousness far beyond his years, as though he were accepting some great charge with his father’s departure, his eyes large and fixed.

Looking back over his shoulder as he rode away, Bard saw the three of them standing by the door of their house, and a terrible chill shivered through his heart, a sense of foreboding, a feeling of rending loss, but it was only for a moment, and he shook himself impatiently and nudged his horse into a faster pace towards Mirkwood.

It was three days’ ride to the forest and once he approached its eaves, Bard entered it with no fear. It was dark and damp there, yet the road was clear and it was very silent. It was indeed unnaturally silent, not a bird or an animal moved. When night came, it was downright eerie, with no sound and blackness so utter and absolute that Bard was forced to stop for the night where he was, for he could see nothing of the road. At first, he could not sleep for the utter silence of the forest, but then quite suddenly, an extraordinary feeling of safety and security stole over him, and he fell abruptly asleep, and a weird, shimmering presence seemed to hover in the darkness of his dreams. The vision of Thranduil, standing above him in the dawn after that night they had been together, seemed to loom over him now in the forest. 

Bard awoke in the clear morning light and went on, deeper into the forest. The silence no longer worried him, and he felt impossibly happy, watching the sunshine dancing on the road. The further he got, the warmer it became, until it was hot as summer, and he saw that all the trees had leaves upon them as if it were summer indeed, and strange flowers bloomed on either side. He saw no one all that day, but it seemed to pass as though it were one minute, in a glorious daze of contentment and joy. He slept all through the night without break, and in the morning found that someone had left fruit and bread for him, and all night he thought he had heard the wild, silvery laughter of the Elves in his dreams, though he saw none of them.

It was an hour or two after noon when he at last saw one of the Elves, and it was one of the warriors, or perhaps the guards of the forest, dressed all in green and carrying a bow. As he came closer, he recognised Tauriel. He dismounted and hailed her.

‘Why have you come alone?’ she asked, looking surprised and alarmed.

‘You will hardly believe it, but my people seem to have the most absurd superstitions about going into the forest,’ he laughed. ‘None of them would come with me.’

She came closer to him suddenly, and looked into his eyes, then turned away, quickly.

‘Go back,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Go home, go away from here,’ she said, in a low, insistent voice.

‘Tauriel, what is the matter, is the king – ‘

‘Not so loud,’ she said, keeping her voice forcibly low, her eyes darting cautiously. ‘I’m telling you, go back while you can. There is a look in your eyes that I do not like, it is dangerous for you to remain here.’

‘Dangerous, how?’

‘I know something of the hearts of men,’ she said. ‘I am not like other Elves,’ she continued, and Bard realised that this was true. She was more silent, more cautious and thoughtful, less likely to laugh.

‘Do you know what a changeling is?’ she asked.

‘A fairy child left in the place of a human one?’ he said. ‘I thought they were a foolish legend.’

‘You ought to pay more heed to foolish legends. Changelings are real enough, though rare. When I was born, my mother took it into her head that she wanted to have a human child. So she left me with a human family and took their child to raise as her own. I lived among men for the first years of my life and I saw their ways and thoughts. And sometimes,’ her voice became very low indeed and she looked into the depths of the wood, ‘sometimes I fancy I know what it is like to have a heart.’

Bard remembered the stories that went about of her and one of the dwarves, that she had loved him in secret and wept over his dead body, but he had not believed them. Now, he was not sure, as he saw Tauriel’s wide eyes stare with half-forgetful, puzzled sadness into the green depths of the leaves. Then she turned back to him.

‘I give you one last warning, Dragonslayer,’ she said. ‘Go home. Go back to your children and your people and forget all about our kind.’

‘Tauriel, I am here to speak to the king,’ he said, trying to sound reasonable, though her words frightened him. ‘I have something very important to give him.’

‘I have done what I could,’ she said, shrugging. ‘Take that path,’ she indicated a path branching off to his left, ‘it will bring you to the king’s palace by nightfall.’ And she turned and began moving away from him.

‘Thank you, and Tauriel!’ he called. She stopped and turned. 

‘It’s so warm here, as if it is summer. Why is it so warm?’

She shrugged again. ‘It is always summer here, so close to the king’s palace.’ And with that, she vanished into the forest with almost magical rapidity.

And now the wood came alive with the songs of birds Bard had never heard before and the friendly rustlings of animals and the clear, chiming laughter of the Elves sparkling in the summer air. Soon, some of the Elves began to emerge, and they hailed him by name, just as if they were all expecting him. He saw that many of the Elves wore garlands of flowers, or trailed seaweeds in their hair, as though they were all intermingled with the forest. Elf maids, many of them barely dressed and looking as though they had just climbed out of bathing in the river, ran beside his horse for a while. When he dismounted to pass beneath the low-hanging branches, one of the maids ran up and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him quite familiarly and laughing in his ear before she slipped away. Her hair was all dishevelled from the river and she was wet from head to foot and had beautiful dancing eyes like polished stones beneath water. Bard did not know how to react to this forward and strange behaviour, and was oppressed by the Elves shouting his name until the forest seemed to re-echo with it. 

There was no danger of getting lost now, and the Elves accompanied him to the very gates of the great palace of the king, hewn into the rock, and looking magnificent beyond words. The gates were flung open for him, and he rode in just as the sun was setting, with a whole troop of laughing Elves before and about him, who threw flowers before and over him, but not in any ceremonious manner, so that he and his horse were covered in petals. The air smelled of wildflowers and freshness, even in the great palace of rock, which was illuminated by some pervasive, magical light.

The Elves immediately led him straight to the great Hall, and there was Thranduil, almost as though he were waiting for him, sitting on his great throne, magnificent and shining like a gem amidst the cavernous grandeur of his Hall. And all the Elves who had been so loud and laughing now fell silent, and stood all to either side, so that a great path opened right down the centre of the Hall between Bard and Thranduil. Bard’s heart beat painfully when he looked up at the Elvenking, so strange, so far away and yet his lover, his desire. He was so bright that it almost hurt to look at him directly, as he sat there, looking steadily at Bard, waiting for him to approach. Slowly, Bard began walking towards him, it seemed to take an age, his footsteps echoing through the Hall, and with every step, his fear and desire grew, and his awe. He felt both safe, as he had felt in the night when he dreamed to Thranduil, and terribly afraid.

At last, he came before the throne and looking straight up at the face of the Elvenking, said ‘Hail, Thranduil, lord of the Elves! I bring you greetings from Dale.’

He hated formal speech of the sort, but he knew that as a king, it did not do to be over-familiar. Thranduil stood up and looked so splendid and somehow terrible that Bard wanted to fall to his knees before him, but stood his ground. Thranduil swept down from his throne towards him, with the swiftness of the a falcon, as though he were about to attack him, so that Bard flinched, but instead, he stopped right in front of him, and opened his arms in a gesture of greeting.

‘I am honoured to welcome you to my hall, King of Dale,’ he said, with his sly smile, as though mocking Bard for his late formality.   
Then, gently, he took Bard’s hand in his own, as though in a clasp of greeting, but the long, slender, cool fingers caressed Bard’s hand with a pressure that no one could see, secret amidst all the gazing eyes of his people. Bard looked up into Thranduil’s grey eyes, soft now as dove’s wings, and almost languorous with promised love that he alone could see. The entire world fell away, and there was nothing but the Elvenking’s ivory hands and feather-soft eyes.

‘Come, will you join us at our feast?’ Thranduil asked, his voice warm now as a fire on a cold day, full of comfort and Bard could hear under the tone the sweet strain to tenderness and desire. He felt that he would die to feel those lips on his own one more time.

‘Yes, I thank you,’ he said, barely knowing what he spoke.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I seem to be addicted to the Hollywood cliche of falling backwards into bed and the sex scene implied, but I really can't get a proper sex scene to work with this sort of style, it turns out sounding ridiculous! Anyways, thank you again to everyone for your lovely comments!!

Remembering the time that followed, Bard could only think of the overwhelming joy that he felt. He had never in his life been as utterly and completely happy as he was during the next few weeks, and the thought of that joy now brought the most terrible bitterness to his heart, for there is nothing more painful than remembering a happiness that one thought pure, when it was rotten at the root. If he could take away any memory, it would be of that wondrous, careless, abandoned joy, and every time he remembered it, the most agonising tears, dredged from the blackest depths of grief, welled in his eyes. But he kept reliving the memories, again and again, because they were so beautiful, so innocent, that still unspoilt feeling clung to them.

During the feast, Bard hardly noted the food, though it was of the rarest and most delicious that he had ever tasted, so busy he was with thoughts of Thranduil, and each time their eyes met, both heat and cold glanced through his heart in quick succession, and a slow fever crawled over his skin. He could not wait for the gathering to be over, to find some pretext of being alone with Thranduil and giving him the necklace. Looking forward to the Elvenking’s reaction when he saw the gift occupied him completely, he tried to imagine just how his expression would change, what he would say, and had the pleasure of knowing that all he imagined would fall far short of the real thing, the unpredictable, unguessable reality of this wild creature. Bard was drunk on the very sight of Thranduil, in his crown, now of fresh green leaves and earliest flowers, at the head of the table, casting about him his slight, glimmering smiles, his piercing sea-grey gaze. He wondered how he would devise a strategy for being alone with this unreachable, remote being, it seemed impossible, his mind already clumsy with wine. It was an honour to even be looked upon by him, he felt reduced to nothingness by those divine eyes.

But Bard did not have to search for a pretext, Thranduil made it all very easy by asking him, as most of the Elves were departing noisily, singing and laughing, into the night, if he would come to his chamber. He did not seem to care if anyone about them heard him, and as his tone was, as ever, chill and aloof, Bard doubted that anyone would think the invitation at all unusual. Trembling with anticipation, Bard followed the Elvenking through the winding passages of the palace, losing track of where they were going almost at once. Thranduil swept ahead of him, his robes whispering on the floor, not turning around, knowing that Bard was following.

As he stepped after Thranduil into his chamber, Bard was overawed by the splendour surrounding him (for what felt like the thousandth time that night), extravagant tapestries depicting rare beasts covered the walls and their rich gold and silver thread caught and multiplied the light. All the furniture was of exquisitely carved and polished wood and the ceiling of natural rock, retreating upwards into impenetrable darkness. The bed was huge, strewn with rich coverings and curtained so that it looked mysterious, almost cavernous, infinitely secretive and luxuriously inviting. The smell of spring, of fresh air and new leaves hovered in the air. Bard’s heart beat in his throat almost stiflingly as he looked at that bed and his thoughts swam deliriously. He forced himself to focus his eyes on Thranduil.

‘I – I have a gift for you,’ he said, and drew forth the simple wooden box containing the necklace.

A trace of interest and amusement flickered over Thranduil’s face and he accepted the box with a slight twitch of his lips. Bard shivered in anticipation of Thranduil’s discovery. He opened the box and his eyes grew wide, face momentarily blank. Bard relished the sight greedily, the grey eyes suddenly flooded with the flickering light from the gems, the almost-reverent fascination on that exquisite, usually composed face, the slight ripple of awe fluttering over it like wind over the surface of still water. As though entranced, Thranduil picked the necklace up, letting the gems cascade over his fingers. This sight of the Elvenking was as precious to Bard as the jewels were to him. Bard did not even look at the necklace, though it sparkled like droplets of starlight caught in a silver net, Thranduil’s face was enough for him. Finally, Thranduil tore his gaze away from the necklace and raised it to Bard’s face. He almost flinched with the heaviness, the intensity of the focus.

‘Why are you giving me this?’ Thranduil asked, there was no laughter in his voice now, just tension and coldness.

‘It is yours by right, is it not?’ Bard said. ‘I thought it was only right that you have it.’

Thranduil smiled and looked down at the necklace again. Bard sighed as though the force of the Elvenking’s eyes had been a physical pressure that now released his constricted lungs.

‘You may forget about paying that tithe on the grain,’ Thranduil said. ‘If there is any question of debt now, it is I who am in debt to you.’

‘I did not bring it for that,’ Bard said. ‘It is not a payment. It is a gift, my gift to you.’

It was strange, his voice was deeper, rougher than Thranduil’s, yet Thranduil’s voice was so much more powerful somehow, it dwarfed his own almost into insignificance with its controlled ring, its calm, assured strength. His own words seemed to have no weight.

Thranduil smiled again, shut the box and put it on the table. Then, with one of his abrupt, veering, vertiginous movements of a wild cat, he swept forward, and put his hand commandingly on the back of Bard’s head. Bard looked up into his face, the tension, expectation, desire, furious desire quivering in the air between them, and then Thranduil kissed him, it was all open mouth and covetous lips. It was so unfamiliar and so delightful, he tasted different from any human, his skin was of a different substance, the movements of his body were of a different rhythm, there was nothing Bard could compare this to.

‘You’re welcome,’ Bard said, as they drew apart.

And then Thranduil laughed and it was the most enchanting, wonderful sound Bard had ever heard. He realised that he had never heard him laugh before, and it sang right through his heart. It was the sound of rushing water and rustling leaves, the soul of the forest tumbling from his lips, given substance in that inarticulate, eerie sound. Bard would remember that sound forever, and the mere recollection of it was enough to send shivers of despair and loss up his spine. It had gotten into his blood and it would never be out of it, not even with death.

‘Why did you say that? I don’t believe I thanked you,’ Thranduil murmured, a smile curving through his tone.

‘I was sure you would,’ Bard said, laughing too, he felt madly happy, drunk with the sweet sound of the Elvenking’s laughter.

‘Quite impertinent of you,’ Thranduil said, his fingers tensing on Bard’s shoulder, pressing teasingly hard, driving against the flesh like claws. Bard ached to feel that touch on his bare skin, to be caressed with that careless cruelty. Everything else in the world was growing smaller and smaller, further and further away until it dwindled into nothingness next to the force of his joyful desire. He had never felt like this before, so calm, so at ease, yet so terribly uncertain and excited and deliciously afraid. The thought that those feelings should not be compatible flashed across his mind and vanished at once into the blackness, the hugeness of the night ahead with this being.

Thranduil pushed him backwards onto the bed, that vast, inviting temple, shrouded in layers of many-coloured darkness, blue and purple and grey and black, enfolding him in maddening scents of unknown fruits he had never tasted and flowers that he had never seen. With every breath, some thicker, foreign air seeped into his lungs, spilling strange, convoluted visions into his mind, thoughts that were not his own. The Elvenking’s long hair snaked over his now bared skin, and he felt the long, sinuous body moving against his own, moving with the coiled power, the terrifying grace of an animal that could kill, that knew no law but that of his own instincts and desires. He was gentle and rough by turns, as it pleased him, and Bard was utterly, intoxicatingly in his power. 

When he awoke in the morning, he was lying by Thranduil’s side, and the morning sun was shining through the window, falling across the floor, but did not reach the darkness of the bed, where the night still lingered in the ghosts of desire, bruises and kisses remembered by his flesh. Thranduil was not asleep, but his eyes were half-glazed with that strange look at the Elves had sometimes. He was staring straight into the light, and it made his eyes all light, steely grey. Bard kissed his shoulder cautiously, reverently. Thranduil turned and smiled at him, and it was bliss.

‘Come, you do not wish to waste the day, do you?’ Thranduil asked, and they both emerged from the bed into the light of the day.

There was a numbness over Bard’s mind, a strange, ringing brightness, a euphoric airiness. That day slipped into evening and then into night and the next day almost without his notice. The days began to slip by like a sustained note of music, filling his head with almost unbearable, hypnotising sweetness. Some days he rode out hunting with the Elves, some days he wandered the palace or the wood in the perpetual summer, speaking with Elves, who told and showed him many curious things. There were more books in the palace than Bard had seen in his whole previous life, admittedly he had not seen many, and he spent much time reading of lands and people and things he had never heard of before. He spent many nights with Thranduil in the great bed, but sometimes days would pass when he did not see the Elvenking at all, and was not disturbed by it, he had a sense that they were all wandering through this strange realm and would find one another sooner or later, exactly when they were meant to. He sometimes lay with the Elven women, which he would never have dared to do, but they were playful and inviting, and seemed to regard him with great curiosity and desire, as they did not see men often, and moreover, took it almost as an offence if he did not lie with them. This was very flattering, and Elves appeared to be much more thoughtless about such things than humans were.  
And through it all was that great happiness which blinded and deafened him to everything beyond his own delight. It was happiness so utter that he could never have imagined it possible. At no point in his past life had he been so happy, even for an hour together. Perhaps only when he was a child, but he could not remember much of that time with any great clarity. Not even with his wife had he been this happy, their life had always been a hard one from the day of their marriage, hunger and hard work were always with them, and Bard had had to watch her succumb early to the strains of difficult labour, childbirth, and at last her final illness, when a cold had turned into a fever, and her breathing had grown more and more heavy, until she could breathe no more. She had faded from life patiently, without protest, over a very few years he saw her steadily declining, losing her freshness and strength, the last illness had carried her off almost mercifully. All their life together he had watched that decay, lived wordlessly with it every day, it had damaged every joy they had shared. 

But now he was lost in a maze of delight, his previous life a dull stretch of misery and pain behind him. He seldom thought of it, his mind was always dwelling on something fascinating close at hand, not faraway problems. Thranduil was with him often, and Bard was completely consumed in admiring his wisdom and beauty, in listening to him speak, in learning all the things he told of. He looked forward always to the next time he would see Thranduil, and it was those thoughts that occupied his mind most often, imagining his face, the beauty of which was always a surprise, no matter how many times Bard saw it. He could look away for a second and when he turned back, the Elvenking’s appearance stunned him anew; the perfectly unmarked alabaster skin, the water-grey eyes, the delicate pink of the lips, the radiant hair, the slender, vigorous body with its primal strength. Being with him flooded Bard with the sensation of pure satisfaction, he wanted nothing more from life, he was enveloped in contentment. Most of all he loved the sound of the Elvenking’s laugh, its silvery ripple and some strange quality in it that Bard could not define that but always made him long to hear it repeated.

One day, he rode out with a hunting party and fell behind slightly. Trying to find his way back to them, he unexpectedly came upon Tauriel. He had not seen her since the day she had directed him to the palace, for she was captain of the guard of the forest, and rarely came to the palace, usually always moving through the forest or on its borders. She was alone, as she had been before. He greeted her and asked if she was with the hunt.

‘No,’ she answered.

‘Won’t you join us, then?’ he asked.

‘I care little for such pleasures,’ she said, looked away into the depths of the forest with her strange, detached look.

‘I have not seen you since – ‘ Bard began, and then stopped. It occurred to him for the first time that he had no idea how long it had been since their meeting. He tried to count the days, but they kept slipping away from him. A shiver of darkness passed over the brightness of the last while, that confused lapse of time that he could not untangle into measurable hours and days in his mind.

‘Tauriel, how long have I been here?’ he asked her suddenly, a drowsy confusion dimming his eyes.

‘Don’t you know?’ she asked.

‘I can’t seem to remember,’ he murmured, sitting down beside her on a fallen tree.

‘It has been six months since we last spoke.’

A terrible jolt ran through him. ‘Six months? No, it couldn’t have been, it couldn’t have been more than…’ But he could not even tell how much time he thought had elapsed.  
And for the first time in months, he thought of his children. Of course the consciousness that he had children had never departed from his mind, but now they appeared to him as a real presence, as solid, sad, frightened and lonely children, waiting for him at home. And his painful, bitter love for them awoke in him again, not that golden confusion in which he had wandered since coming into the forest, but hard and long affection, grown over the years. It tugged at his heart so insistently, so wrenchingly, that he felt impelled to instant action.

He jumped to his feet.

‘I must go back, I must go back at once!’ he said.

‘Bard, wait – ‘ Tauriel began, but he did not stay to listen. Bard was not an impatient man but a thoughtful and steady one under normal circumstances, but right now he was not to be stayed by anyone. He began to run back to the palace, leaving Tauriel standing in the clearing where they had met, staring after him, a rueful sadness, a helpless pity in her eyes.

Reaching the palace, Bard asked that Thranduil be told that he had to leave at once, without waiting for the hunt’s return, and to give his apologies at his sudden departure. The Elves offered him one of their swift horses, but with some instinctive shrinking from the offer, Bard took his own horse, and set off at a gallop away from the Elvenking’s palace and out of the wood.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short and not-at-all sweet chapter. Thranduil is sadly missing from this one, but he'll be very much present with some fuckery in the next one.

The urgency to get back was consuming Bard. He pressed on hard towards Dale, and would have kept going by both day and night, but that his horse needed rest, even if he could have none. He only slept for a few hours every night out of sheer weariness, and then got up in the morning to ride with hard, dark determination. Sometimes he had to dismount and lead his stumbling horse, too weary to bear him. The country seemed different from the way it had looked when he left it, different fields planted, different trees about, but he paid it little heed in his singleminded pursuit of finding the way back.

No one hailed him, indeed people looked on him with surprise as he rode past, but he attributed this to his long absence. Perhaps they had concluded he had died. He didn’t stay long enough to see whether the faces of those he encountered displayed surprise or disappointment or happiness, he rode on to Dale as fast as he could. Once within the city walls, he slowed down. The streets seemed to be different, winding in different directions from what he remembered. 

Bard had to force himself to be calm and slow down. He dismounted and led his horse through the streets. He now saw that the faces of people who met his eyes showed nothing beyond a sort of welcoming, cautious curiosity, just as though he had been a stranger. Everyone looked better-fed and clothed than when he had left, no one was in too great a hurry, everyone was proceeding about their business with a measured, calm rhythm. The very speed of life, which had been so desperate and scurrying when he left, had changed. How could this have happened in six months? Again, he had to push down panic and attempt to calmly disentangle the streets.

After a few minutes, he had to concede that he was lost, or at least did not know the way to the halls in the centre of the city. Lost, in his own city! This was more than a little humiliating. Bard hesitated, then decided to ask the first person he saw, and attempt to laugh the situation off.

A woman and a man who was probably her son were coming down the street towards him. They were both well-dressed, perhaps even richly, and were talking to one another. He had never seen either of them before, yet there was something strangely familiar about the woman, especially the cast of her eyes and the shape of her lips. She must be about sixty, and her son perhaps thirty or more. How was it possible that Bard didn’t recognise them? He thought he knew everyone of the woman’s age among his people, and she was clearly wealthy. The nagging familiarity of her face, the half-formed remembrance clinging like a veil to her features disturbed him deeply.

Bard decided that he would ask them for directions, but before he could do so, the woman suddenly caught sight of him and stopped dead, staring and going terribly pale. By instinct, Bard stopped too. They stood staring at one another for a moment or so, then the woman clutched her son’s arm and struggled to say something. But she seemed unable to bring the words out, and suddenly she stumbled and would have fallen in a faint if her son had not caught her.

Bard ran over to help the man and together they got his unconscious mother into a nearby shop, where a young girl ran to get water.

‘Thank you for your help,’ the man said, looking at Bard somewhat anxiously.

‘What was it that made her faint like that?’ he asked.

The man looked very uncomfortable. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s very strange. She’s not a superstitious type at all, but she said that you looked just like her father. But of course, you’re a stranger here and don’t know, she’s the king’s aunt, her father was king here years and years ago, he brought the people here and started the rebuilding of the city. Then one day he just… vanished.’

Bard stared at him. Finally, managing to speak, he asked, ‘And what was her father’s name, if I may ask?’

‘Bard the Dragonslayer. It was he who killed the great dragon Smaug in Laketown. He went to deal with the Elves and never came back.’

Bard simply looked at him. He was stunned, empty, transfixed by a breathtaking horror that left his body free to go on with its motions while his mind refused to accept what was happening.

‘What – what is her name, if I may ask?’ he said.

‘Sigrid,’ the man answered, as the girl brought water and they both bent over her, trying to revive her.

Bard drew back and away from them. The dominant thought in his head was that he must not be there when she recovered consciousness. He had to get out, could not let her see him again. The walls around him seemed suddenly too close, contracting around him. He had to have air. He slipped out of the house as unobtrusively as he could. Of course, reason revolted against any of this, it was absurd, grotesque, twisted, a horrible fancy, a hallucination, a dream, perhaps he was ill and his mind was wandering. Yet the ground felt real beneath his feet and the world was steady. And part of his mind was working away, cooly, logically, prising apart what the man had said for information that could be elicited about the unbelievable past that ought to have been his future. He said that Sigrid was the king’s aunt. That meant that Bain’s son was on the throne. That Bain had been king before, and had had a son. Perhaps many children. And this woman was (no, had been) his youngest daughter, had married, had had children, had lived a life, all without him.  


A sense of loss so enormous that it was too monstrous to be grasped expanded his heart with sheer panic and incomprehension. There had been some mistake somewhere, the world had slipped from him and he had to put it right. There was only one thing to do; go back to Mirkwood and find the answer to all of this. For a few seconds, Bard stood outside, in the calm, windless day, which seemed suspended in unperturbed serenity, and struggled against the tide of incomprehension, pain, horror and darkness that was surging into a storm inside him. Then he mounted his already-weary horse and turned back to the forest.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas season was very boring in parts, I read too much George Eliot and wrote this. I'm sorry about how dreadful Thranduil is. Okay, not really sorry, I've literally been waiting to write this bit since I started the story. Thank you to everyone who has said nice things so far!!

All Bard could think as he rode towards Mirkwood was that there had been some nightmare confusion and that Thranduil would set all things to right. The Elvenking was a large, bright presence in his flighty, unsteadied thoughts, the idea of him shining with a soothing, silver light that calmed Bard whenever he focussed on him. Therefore he tried to think of Thranduil and nothing else, of the joy he had known in the forest during all those months, of the time they had spent together, of the Elf’s tender, lingering kisses. Yes, Thranduil would untangle this, would unwind time or space or whatever substance got so hopelessly tangled, and set him free to go back and resume his old life.

Soon after he entered the forest, still a day’s ride or so from the palace, he came upon several of the Elves in the guard, and among them Tauriel. They all greeted him merrily, as if nothing was wrong, and there was nothing to surprise them in his comings and goings, all except Tauriel, who looked troubled. He stopped to eat with them before continuing on his journey, and she took him aside.

‘What has happened?’ she asked, but her face, with its strange Elvish wisdom, looked as if she already knew. ‘You are pale, and your eyes are distracted. You seem in a terrible hurry.’

‘I have to get to the palace as fast as possible, the most strange and unnatural thing has happened,’ Bard said. ‘I came back to Dale, but many years had passed. My son was dead and – ‘ he stopped suddenly, unable to go on, urgency rising again and the need to press on at all costs was such that he almost left without listening to her reply.

She dropped her head and looked wearily, mournfully down. 

‘Oh, Bard,’ she said, and her voice was very low, ‘I warned you. I told you to go home while you still could. You will never go home now.’

‘What do you mean? There’s some enchantment, I know that Thranduil – ‘

‘You will never find your home again,’ she repeated. She lifted her eyes and looked at him, her eyes heavy, dragging, dreadful with poisonous certainty. ‘Have you not heard the old tale? Those who eat the king’s food and drink the king’s wine and sleep in the king’s bed, will never make their way home.’

A stab of horror and fear shot through him, at the strange, half-chanted rhythm of the words and because she knew, she knew what had passed between him and Thranduil. He was sick with her knowledge, with her gaze, and could say nothing. He could not lie, not now.

‘Whenever you leave the forest now, you will find yourself in a different time. Perhaps far in the past, perhaps far in the future, but never at the same time as you entered it. You had better not go to the king. There is nothing that can be done.’

‘No,’ Bard said, refusing to believe her. ‘No, there is some mistake. Thranduil will lift the enchantment, he will – will do something.’

‘Do not you see? All this has come from him, he is the very source of this disease. He will not help you, he will leave you to rot. It does not matter to him.’ Her voice was hard and bitter.

‘You don’t understand,’ Bard said, turning away.

How could she understand? How could she know what had truly passed between them in the darkness? How could she know that they loved one another? All that great happiness he had known in the forest, where could it have come from if not from great love?

As he was mounting his horse again, she seized his arm with an urgent grasp.

‘Do not go to him,’ she repeated, her eyes wide and fixed on his, a pressing, insistent gaze.

‘Tauriel, I must go,’ he said.

She sighed, and released his arm, as if all strength had left her, as if in surrender. ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘You must.’ She said no more, but simply retreated from him, not looking up as he turned and galloped towards the Elvenking’s hall.

He barely noticed the increased warmth as he entered the region of eternal summer, as greenery overflowed all around him. The only thought in his mind was to get to the palace as fast as he could and see Thranduil.

There was no bar on his way into the halls, the gates were flung open before him, and no one stopped him coming into the great hall, where Thranduil sat among his court.

‘Ah, Bard,’ he said, looking at him with some slight surprise.

‘My lord,’ Bard said, bowing hastily, but before he could say anything else, Thranduil cut him off in a half-playful tone that Bard well knew could wheel suddenly into deadly seriousness.

‘How very rude of you to have left our court so suddenly, without a word to me! I hope you have come back to beg my pardon?’ the tone was teasing, but there was that undercurrent of steely will in his voice that frightened Bard. Yet he was sure of his affection, he could not be mistaken.

‘My lord, I beg you to speak with me in private.’ This was no time for cautious politeness.

Thranduil lifted his eyebrows slightly as if to indicate his unwillingness to believe that Bard could possibly have anything to say to him that was not for his court to hear, and Bard again felt infinitely distant from him, almost as though the nights they had spent together had been a dream, a wordless, quicksilver dream of mad love. But the Elvenking raised an indolent hand, and as one, everyone in the hall left it, quickly and almost soundlessly. Thranduil did not move from his throne, but sat looking down at Bard, who had the strangest sense that he was busy enjoying his power, luxuriating in it.

‘Now,’ he asked, in his most musical, and somehow most commanding, voice, ‘what is it that you wanted to speak so privately of?’

‘There has been a terrible – ‘ Bard stopped, unsure what to call it. ‘A terrible mistake. I cannot return to my family, to my time. When I came back to Dale, I found that many years…’ he stumbled over his words, choked with feeling ‘many years had passed, and – ‘

‘What do you expect me to do? It is no concern of mine,’ Thranduil said airily, interrupting him as if what he was saying was utterly irrelevant.

Surely this must be a game, Bard thought. He had often noticed the Elves seemed to have a crueller sort of mockery than humans did, could even laugh at another’s tears. The emotions of others amused more often than touched them. This must be a sort of entertainment to Thranduil, a source of amusement, to toy with him like this, and he didn’t like it. But showing his irritation now would be a mistake, since he already knew the Elvenking to be temperamental and often offended at slight things.

‘My lord, I long to return to my land, to my children,’ Bard said, with a cringing feeling that he was begging. This was humiliating and his pride revolted against it, but he forced himself to go on. ‘I ask that – ‘

He stopped as Thranduil stood up, with one of his sweeping, fluid motions from him throne and descended the steps towards him. He thought that Thranduil was about to laugh, to explain everything, but he did not even look at Bard, and merely said, ‘Continue,’ in a tone that indicated he was only giving Bard’s word idle attention. He was beginning to get more and more angry at the way Thranduil was playing with his deepest feelings, making him pour them out in the empty, echoing hall, with just the two of them in it. All that space bearing down on him.

‘I ask that you help me return to my land and my family,’ he finished, with as much dignity as he could.

‘But what can I do?’ Thranduil said. He had now descended from the elevation of his throne, and stood in front of Bard, looking impatient.

‘Lift the curse, the charm, whatever magic prevents me from returning my own age… please.’

Thranduil laughed, and the sound sent chills up Bard’s spine. The sound was just as beautiful as ever, but now he could hear the ring of cold steel in it, of crystal chiming with tooth-throbbing sweetness. 

‘My dear Bard, I cannot do anything of the sort! I did not put that spell there, and I cannot lift it!’

‘Are you asking me to believe that there is anything in your own realm that you do not have power over?’

‘I appreciate your flattery,’ Thranduil said, strolling carelessly across the floor, ‘but I am afraid it will get you nowhere.’

‘I did not mean to flatter,’ Bard answered, his teeth clenched in rage, ‘but I know something of your power.’

‘I have no power over that spell. And even if I did, what makes you think that I would lift it for you? It guards the security of my realm, there is no reason to alter it to   
accommodate one man.’

And then, for the first time, the possibility that Thranduil might perhaps indeed have no intention to help him, might really do nothing, occurred to him. He thrust the thought away immediately. It was completely impossible, he wanted to protest against it.

‘Surely you understand, my people, my children, they all depend on me,’ he said.

‘Then you should have looked to them and never left them,’ Thranduil said, ‘what have I to do with them?’

He was pacing lightly, carelessly across the floor, not even looking at Bard, as if wishing to end a tiresome discussion and waiting for him to go. Bard wanted to seize him and make him look at him.

‘Will you not help me then?’ Bard asked, quietly, in an earnest voice, to show Thranduil that the time for jest had passed.

‘You will get no help from me,’ Thranduil said, turning to look at him directly now. ‘You ought to have listened to your people’s superstitions if you meant to stay with them.’

The initial suspicion had now grown into a terrible certainty. Bard’s heart felt like molten lead and something between horror and rage was choking him. Involuntarily, he used his final argument, the last resort, the one he did not think he would ever have to use.

‘Did it mean nothing then?’ he said, his voice thick and crushed. ‘What passed between us?’

‘What passed between us?’ Thranduil echoed, mockingly. ‘A distraction, a whiling away of the time! Why should it mean anything to me, or to you for that matter?’

He looked away, as if Bard bored him again, and every slightly relaxed line of his body indicated that he found this scene tiresome. The only thing Bard felt now was the desire to make him care, to force Thranduil to understand his agony.

‘No,’ Thranduil continued, still looking at some point over Bard’s head with his clear, far-away eyes. ‘No, I cannot help you. I am sorry, but it is your own fault.’

And as he turned his eyes to Bard again, he rushed forward.

‘You monster!’ he cried, ‘thief! Traitor! You have stolen my life, you have destroyed me!’

As Bard closed the distance between them in three wide strides, Thranduil lashed out abruptly and struck him across the face with the back of his hand, so hard that Bard fell to his knees, as much with shock as with the force of the blow. He felt as though the entire world, which had been spinning out of control had suddenly come to an abrupt halt. There was dead silence, as he knelt on the floor at Thranduil’s feet, and blood filled his mouth from where his teeth had broken the inside of his lip.

The blood was like a film over his eyes, the world flooded with scarlet rage and the need to retaliate, to hurt Thranduil, was all he felt. He snatched his dagger out of its sheath and leapt at Thranduil, but he easily gripped Bard’s wrist with one immensely strong hand, and twisted his wrist so that he let go of the dagger, which clattered to the floor. With one continuous motion, Thranduil kicked the dagger away and threw Bard to the floor. He heard a hissing, rasping sound above his head and felt the cold iron of a sword pressing against his throat.

‘Kill me then,’ he panted. ‘You have taken everything else from me, do me the mercy of taking my life as well.’

There was a pause, during which Bard felt so deadened to any other emotion besides anger than he would have welcomed the last sensation of the metal’s deadly coldness slicing across its fiery heat. But it didn’t come.

‘No,’ Thranduil said, stepping back and moving his sword aside. ‘I have no reason to do so.’

‘Then I will kill you!’ Bard exclaimed, and rushed at Thranduil again, but he merely captured Bard’s arm in an implacable grip and threw him to the floor with such calculated and stunning violence that Bard lay, unable to regain his breath for several moments, wondering if one of his ribs was broken and not particularly caring.

The next thing he felt was Thranduil almost pulling him to his feet by a steely grip on his shoulder. He did not even have the will to struggle as Thranduil almost dragged him out of the hall and down a passage, and only seemed to come to himself when Thranduil pushed him into a small stone chamber. Thranduil had shoved him with such force that, like a rag doll, he fell to the floor and struck his head against something hard, and the last thing he heard before mercifully losing consciousness was the sound of the door clanging shut behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for more Emotional Suffering!!

When Bard regained consciousness, the first thing he was aware of was a weight over his head and heart, as of terrible grief and unshed tears, but he could not remember at first what it was. He sat up, and instantly felt that his head was throbbing, his wrist, shoulder and ribs were bruised and stiff. As soon as the question about what had happened formed in his mind, the memory rushed back; the curse, Thranduil, his violence, his ruthlessness, his unfeeling coldness. And his utter lack of love. Bard could have borne it all, had it not been for that. In not one movement or tone had he detected the least hint of genuine, warm, human affection. He was surprised that the word ‘human’ should have occurred to him at that moment, but of course, why would he expect that? Thranduil was not human, and he ought never to have expected human emotions to affect him. He saw that now clearly as day, but he had been blind to it before.

He thought he could have endured it if he had detected in Thranduil any wish to hurt him deliberately, to keep him from his home in order to have him to himself, but there was nothing of that. He had simply gotten in the Elvenking’s way, and had been brushed aside as if he mattered no more than a pretty trifle, a butterfly whose wings had been crushed by a careless hand. And he had thought it was love.

The most bitter, grinding misery came on him when he thought of his happiness in those days in the forest, how he had felt really and truly loved. And it had all been hollow, a mirage he had created for himself. None of it was true. How could he have endued with such emotion something had had been a mere image of love? His love had had no answer. He was so chilled and paralysed with grief and betrayal that he felt sure he would die of it, that his heart could not bear so much. He shut his eyes and wished for death, but still he could feel the cold stone under his hands and the hard wall behind his head. And over and over again he could hear the Elvenking’s laughter in his ears, echoing, dancing through the tormented chambers of his brain, with most beautiful, alluring, splendid sound in the world.

But he knew now what that note that hid behind it was, that tone that fascinated him. It was carelessness. All along, he had always known (in a shadowed, obscure way) that Thranduil cared nothing for him, knew it in his bones, and the knowledge had been the most unbearably sweet poison. Yes, he could not deny it; he had known, he had believed the stories of his people, yet he had blinded himself with reason and gone to the forest anyway, because something in his blood had sung greedily in demand for what the Elvenking offered. For that wildness, that uncaring freedom, that inhuman note in the Elves’ laughter. The recollection of its silvery notes set his teeth aching and his spine searing.

He did not know how long he was in the chamber; there was no window and he could not see the light of day. It could not have been more than a few hours, but it seemed like an eternity had passed over him. At first he paced the small space and blamed Thranduil furiously, cursing him aloud, but his rage did not last long. It drained from him and the words withered on his lips as the heaviness of guilt settled over him. He sat on the cold floor and he bowed his head in an agony of self-reproach. After all, what could he, a mere man, know of the workings of magic? He ought to have listened to the tales and warnings of his people, he ought to have stayed away from the Elves, never had any dealings with them. He ought to have accepted their help, paid them their due, then put them out of his mind, let them go their way and gone his own. He knew now why people said it did not do to even think too much of those creatures. Yes, in the end, it had been his choice, he remembered with terrible vividness Thranduil’s growl of ‘are you sure, Dragonslayer?’ in his ear that first night, the rasp of his voice like the noise of a wild animal, the sweet jagged breath against his ear, the curtain of silken hair against his cheek and neck. It came back to him with shocking vividness, he should have known that this was a creature of another sort from him, that he ought never to have come near him, that he ought to have turned and fled, but he had made his choice. And even as he was remembering it now, he knew he would be doomed to relive, again and again, those moments that he had thought full of love and joy, to see them in a thousand different lights, but never again with innocence or happiness. He would forever relive every moment with Thranduil in his own mind, trying to understand, even though he knew it was hopeless to attempt to do so. He began to trace the outline of every memory, a keening pain in his heart at every recollected caress, whisper, laugh. His mind was full of little fragments to remember as a forest is full of innumerable leaves, and he began to wind through them for what he knew was the first of many thousands of times. He plunged his hand into the stream of memory and brought up little broken shards of the past, and he would do so again and again, finding new pieces every time. The ghosts of joy haunted the empty chambers of his heart.

He had no strength, not even the strength of anger, only the draining weakness of self-loathing and reproach. A dull heaviness settled over his limbs and he began to wonder how long he had been there. No more than a few hours, he knew, but he began wondering how long it would be before he died of lack of water and food. He felt that he would now welcome death, especially the softly fading death of hunger. He felt so utterly abandoned that he did not even consider the possibility that he would ever leave the chamber. It was strange that he should have so suddenly lapsed into such thoughts, especially being an active and decisive man, but that was in his former life. It was as though everything he had known about the world, about himself, was suddenly broken off, there was no fixed boundary of anything. Time was flowing free, nothing could be contained by reason or habit. He should have known, when he had entered the region of eternal summer where the Elvenking dwelt, that this was no place for a mortal.

He had sunk so deep into this hopeless dullness that he was shocked when the door opened sharply. He looked at it with the half-fear of someone on the brink of a new world. Everything beyond the door assumed an aspect of the unknown, a world where there was no certainty and he did not want it.

Thranduil stood in the doorway, but Bard now felt no leap of hope at the sight, only incomprehension and perhaps, fear, but not much of it. After all, what further could Thranduil do to him?

‘Have you done?’ Thranduil asked in his cold, ringing voice.

Bard made no answer, but stood up, in a dull, dutiful attempt at courage and a display of broken strength and pride.

‘Will you attempt to kill me again?’ Thranduil asked.

‘No,’ Bard said. And that was true. He had no will to do so at all. He felt only a slight bewilderment at the thought that he had ever attempted something so ridiculous and fruitless.

‘Good. Now get out, go on.’ Thranduil stepped back from the door, swinging it wide. Hesitatingly, Bard walked out of it and stood in the corridor. Then he stopped.

‘What is it?’ Thranduil asked, his voice bored.

‘I – I do not know the way out,’ Bard said, his eyes on the floor. He would never raise them to meet the Elvenking’s again. He heard Thranduil’s sigh, like the wind in the grass, like the wind above a grave, above his bent head.

‘Follow me,’ Thranduil said, and swept ahead of him down the corridor. Bard followed the hem of his robes, trying to see as little of him as possible, to not have to suffer the agony of having his eyes dwell on that face that he now knew to be heartless, not animated by any emotion that he could understand.

They stopped and, raising his head, Bard saw that they were at the gate to the hall. The door was open and bright, hard sunshine was lying across the path outside, everything beyond the door was green and perfect and heavenly in its eternal summer beauty.

Involuntarily, he turned and met Thranduil’s eyes. He had not meant to, in fact this was the one thing he had most wanted to avoid. He saw now that his face was, though so similar to the faces of men, somehow utterly different, there was something about it that was pointedly not human, something he had never noticed before. The unnatural fairness of the skin, the too-hard line of the cheekbones, the weird tilt of the eyes, the heavy brows, the majestic sweep of the heavy gaze, the clever point of the long nose, something about it all gave Bard the sudden deeply unsettled feeling of wrongness, the intuitive thrill of danger. He had no loathing or anger or fear towards Thranduil now, only a bewildered awe, a combination of recognition and unfamiliarity.

‘Where shall I go?’ he asked. He said it without thinking, simply overawed by the weight of wisdom and power that he could feel in Thranduil, he spoke in reflexive helplessness, a need for answers.

‘Go where you wish,’ Thranduil said indifferently. He turned away, and swept away down the hallway without even a backward glance at Bard.

Bard walked out into the sunlight, but the warmth seemed to go no further than his skin. He was almost shivering with a phantom chill. He walked on until he came to the river, and suddenly, he could go no further. He sat down by it and stared into the rushing, lulling waters.

Thranduil had told him to go where he wished, and he had no wish. All he wanted was to stay here, to listen to the sweet, repetitive warble of the waters distracting him from the barren agony of his life. As long as he heard that sound, he did not feel much pain, much of anything except an odd emptiness. He relived, dully, scenes of the past. He could no longer understand how that man who had been so carried away by excitement and adventure and animated by fascination could have been him. It seemed to him that he had lived a thousand lives in those few months. The sound of the river drained his strength, his will. Now and again, he heard the laughter of Elves, that careless merriment, or the call of a bird. He knew that night fell and day came again, and as his waking was so similar to his sleep, was a condition of half-sleep in any case, he barely paid any mind to the changes of the sun. Damp coated his lungs with dreamy heaviness, and his dreams of the past blended seamlessly into the sounds and sights around him. Idly, he envied the trees over him, their roots plunged deep into the ground, forever at peace. He supposed he would stay there forever, or at least as long as his life went on. His life, what did he care for it now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the end! The next bit will be a little different though. But I promise I won't just abandon Bard there forever. (Legitimately considered ending this story here by having him turn into a tree, due to the rich mythological tradition of people turning into trees to escape things, but decided this was a bit excessive.)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I apologise for neglecting this story so shamefully, I've been busy and confused as to what to do next. I'm sorry if it's taking a weird direction.

                 Margaret had been warned all her life to never go into the forest, because they said evil things dwelt there and evil spirits. But evil spirits were relatively unintimidating compared to her father. For years, he had been getting more and more cruel to her and her sister, and as she fled from home on that bitterly cold winter day, she vowed never to return, and the evil spirits were a welcome alternative. Without considering, she plunged straight into the forest which she had seen every day of her seventeen years, and had never entered, nor knew anyone who had. Once inside the forest, she felt curiously safe, surrounded by trees, invisible as she would not be on the open road or in the fields. She felt as if the wood was wrapping her in layers of silence and security.

                She had to walk fast, for it was bitterly cold, and she had few warm clothes to protect her. She hid her hands in her fraying woollen sleeves and pulled her thin cloak around her throat. It was a blessing that there was no wind in the forest, but the cold seemed more concentrated somehow, as if she was walking through a white wall of it. It was beautifully silent, and at first, the perfect whiteness, the untouched snow, the sharp smell of pine cheered her. She began to tell herself stories, as she always did. _Soon_ , she thought, _very very soon, I will come across a little wooden house, with a smoking chimney, and a woman will come out and see how cold and tired I am, and invite me inside and there will be a lovely warm fire and I will sit beside it and she will give me hot soup. And there will be a cat who will lie on my feet and warm them_. And of course, the woman would be a fairy or a wise woman of some kind, and the cat would be a magic cat that would talk and they would let her stay with them forever and ever, and she would never have to see her father any more. And after a while, she could go home and steal her sister away and bring her to live in the forest with her and they would never be unhappy again.

                For a while, these imaginings kept Margaret so absorbed and entranced that she almost forgot how cold she was and how tired she was getting, and she kept peering ahead, expecting to see the little wooden house that she had almost persuaded herself to believe in. But as no house appeared and all that was before her was the same winding, snowy road bordered by endless trees, she began to feel dull and hungry and increasingly cold. Her thoughts started rotating in monotonous circles, and she could not bring herself to believe in the little house. Soon she felt that she must stop and rest, but she felt that if she did, the cold would kill her, and she did not dare to. She could feel her little heart labouring the keep the blood flowing through her little body. She felt smaller and smaller as she walked, reduced to a tiny speck in the hugeness of the forest. Mercifully, the cold numbing her mind made her feel as if it was a bad dream, and so she slid almost peacefully into despair.

                Suddenly, through the trees, she saw a frozen river to her left. The day was waning and it was getting increasingly dark, and the clear expanse of the snowed-over ice seemed to hold the last of the light. Instinctively anxious to get away from the dark, Margaret left the path, and waded through the snow towards it. By the river bank, she stopped. She knew that she could go on further. There was a hollow in the roots of a huge tree, where there was little snow, and she climbed into it. It was bliss just to sit down and rest, though she knew, with dull resignation, that she would never get up again. She would die here. But at least to die in the silence, away from her father’s shouting, where the cold was almost gentle, was a gift.

                All at once, she heard the unmistakable sound of horse’s hooves. At first, she could not understand why they sounded so hard and clattering, then she realised they were coming from the frozen river. Her first thought was how very dangerous it was to ride across ice like that, and that she must get up and warn whoever it was that the ice could break at any moment. _I must get up, I must, I have to warn them…_ she told herself, and struggled to her knees, holding one of the roots, and shouted, as best she could ‘Stop! Stop, you’ll fall!’

The sound of the hooves ceased abruptly and she looked up to see, standing quite close to her, not a horse, but a giant elk, with enormous antlers and a rider on his back.

                At first she thought it was a man, but she swiftly realised that it must be one of the creatures they said lived in the forest. He had long silvery hair, and features hard and clear as if they were cut out of ice. His face was so beautiful that even from where she was, it robbed her of all thought, of all emotion except wonder.

                For a moment, they stared at one another. Then the creature dismounted and came towards her. He was wearing long robes of the most splendid and thick fabric she had ever seen or could have imagined, she did not even know the name of such stuff. On his head was a diadem of delicately wrought silver, with a shining jewel in it. This, she realised, must be the king of the Elves that people said lived in the forest, and whom some had claimed to have seen.

                She scrambled to her feet, where she found the strength she did not know. She had forgotten all about thinking that the ice would collapse as the Elf came towards her. Clumsily, she tried to curtsy and dropped her head. She remembered that she must never look her betters in the face. _Perhaps_ , she thought, _he will kill me for daring to look at him. I wouldn’t mind being killed by him_. But the Elf came quite close and held out his hand to her. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Do not be afraid.’

                At the sound of his voice she felt as if something warm broke open in her chest. It was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard, ringing and vibrating, rich and sweet. Hesitantly, trembling, she stepped onto the frozen river and came towards him. As she came near, she knelt on the ice, but he took her hand and brought her to her feet again. His hand was warm and strong, and she still did not dare look up at his face.

                ‘Why did you call out?’ he asked.

                ‘I heard a horse on the ice, and I was afraid the ice would break, Your Majesty,’ she answered.

                ‘Look at me,’ he told her, and she looked up. His eyes were light grey, and shone like the jewel in his diadem. She was terrified by his beauty.

                ‘You are so cold,’ he said, ‘and yet you called out to help, though you yourself are almost spent. Why were you wandering in the forest?’

                ‘I ran away from home.’

                ‘Why?’

                ‘My father was cruel to me.’

                ‘Did he do this?’ the Elf asked, and touched her bruised cheek and eye, which she had forgotten about.

                ‘Yes,’ she said.

                He ran his fingers gently over her cheek, and she felt the pain vanish. She closed her eyes.

                ‘What is your name?’

                ‘Margaret.’

                ‘Do you wish to go back home?’

                ‘Oh no!’ she exclaimed. ‘I mean, I do not, I would rather die here than go back, kill me if you must, but please do not tell me to go back!’

                ‘I would not kill you,’ he said, and laughed lightly. ‘Will you come to my court and be our guest?’ he asked.

                ‘I would not presume to such an honour,’ she said.

                He turned and walked back to his giant steed and she felt wistfully grateful that before she died, she had seen something so wonderful. Death, after this, would be almost sweet, for what further had life to offer? She watched as he mounted, but instead of riding away, as she had expected, he came back towards her until the huge elk stood right above her, she could feel its warm, calm breath. The Elvenking looked down at her.

                ‘Will you stay here and die or will you come with me?’ he asked, and held out his hand.

                As if enchanted, she stepped forward, and took his hand. He reached down and put his other arm around her waist, lifting her with one long, easy motion onto the elk’s back in front of him. He opened the robes that he wore and drew her against his chest, wrapping the fur-lined material around her. The fur was warm and soft past all imagining and Margaret felt as if she were drowning in bliss. Warmth, which she never thought she would feel again, covered her, reached even to her hands and feet. The scent of herbs and leaves filled her dazed mind. She curled up against this beautiful, inhuman being and closed her eyes, feeling him holding her with one arm, the other on the reins. The motion of the giant animal was so steady that she fell immediately asleep.

***********************************

Bard, wandering by the river, saw Thranduil ride by, beyond the trees. He saw the Elvenking from time to time, and was sure that Thranduil saw him, but he avoided him and pretended not to see. But today, he saw that Thranduil was carrying in front of him a young woman, Bard knew she must be human because her hair fell in waves and curls like the Elves’ never did, and even from where he was, he could see that her clothes were ragged and dirty. Her hair shone like burnished gold and spilled over her shoulders and trailed in the wind. Was she dead? For the first time in what seemed like an age, Bard felt an active interest, and a sense of trouble and worry not for himself. But there was nothing he could do except wonder. The Elvenking appeared and vanished in the trees so fast that Bard was not sure if it had really seen him.

**********************

Margaret was awakened by the sound of birds and a new smell in the air. She opened her eyes and for a moment, had no memory of where she was. Then she remembered her flight, the forest, the cold, the Elvenking. She was still in his arms and they were still riding, but he had flung back his heavy furs and everything about was green and flooded with late evening sunshine.

                ‘Why, it’s summer!’ she exclaimed involuntarily.

                ‘Yes, it is always summer in my land.’

                Thranduil smiled at her, a remote, slight smile, as if he just glanced at her in passing and her face happened to give him a moment’s pleasure, while she was captivated, terrified and adoring. She had no choice but to worship this being with his otherworldly beauty and grace. She was in such awe that she could scarcely breathe.

                She heard singing and the sound of music so sweet that she could not be sure it was real. Then she became aware of many people, or rather, not people but Elves, moving about and speaking in a strange, fascinatingly accented tongue.

                ‘You must be hungry,’ the Elvenking said, and called to the Elves around them, ‘look, here is a pretty companion to share our feast!’

                Someone helped her from the elk’s back and drew her into the circle of the most beautiful and finely dressed creatures she had ever seen. Dazzled, she looked about her, and saw them all smiling at her, and looking at her with kind and curious eyes. She dropped her own eyes, and bowed to them.

                ‘Don’t bow, here, come sit with us,’ one of the Elves cried, drawing her forward into the. She saw with surprise that they were both male and female, eating and drinking and singing together, which she had never witnessed before.  

                ‘Do not be afraid, no harm will come to you here.’


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I'm so sorry it took me a minor eternity to update, I was just completely stuck as to how to write this! But the next chapter will be the last, and hopefully I won't take as long to finish that!

Day and night seemed to blur together, days ran into weeks and weeks into months, without Margaret noticing it. At first, simply the luxury of eating when she was hungry and sleeping when she was weary was almost overwhelming, and constant conversation with the Elves made her feel as if she could no longer tell where the line between dreaming and waking was. She had never encountered beings so perfect, so merry and so wise at once, so full of life and joy. They could dance for hours, and then abruptly stop to converse on learned subjects. Margaret spent her days caught up in their constant round of merrymaking and feasting. One of her greatest wishes had always been to have books to read, and in the palace she had all the books she could want at her command.

  
She made friends among the Elves easily, and they all seemed eager to take care of her and make her happy and content. They took pleasure in dressing her in beautiful clothes and playing with her hair, which was of a different texture and colour from theirs. She was like a doll to them, and she thoroughly enjoyed it. They taught her to ride properly, like a real lady, not on an old carthorse as she did at home, but on a swift stallion, and how to hunt and swim, which she had not been allowed to do. At the feasts and hunts, she often saw the Elvenking, but was too frightened to approach him. He seemed to stand slightly apart from his subjects, for he looked proud and cold, and never laughed. Several times, she saw him watching her with a little smile, but she always dropped her eyes timidly, and dared not look at his face.

  
One day, she wandered away on her own along the river, looking for flowers to make garlands, because she was determined to find the nicest ones and surprise everyone by how beautiful she would make her garlands. As she walked, she suddenly heard the sound of hooves behind her and turned to see the Elvenking riding along the road on his great elk. He stopped when he saw her and dismounted. She sank into a curtsy at his approach, looking down. She was silent, because she was uncertain if she was permitted to speak first.

  
‘Margaret,’ he said, his voice quite close now. He had come near without her seeing.

  
‘Your Majesty,’ she murmured, without looking up. Then she started as she felt him put a finger under her chin and lift her face up.

  
‘Come, walk with me,’ he said, and they set off together by the bank, leaving his mount waiting obediently behind.

  
‘Are you happy here, Margaret?’ he asked, and her name was transformed by his lips into something magical, something that made her heart flutter. It was hers and yet, in his mouth, it became his also.

  
‘Yes, your Majesty,’ she answered. ‘How could I not be? There is everything I desire here! Thank you for your goodness,’ she added, feeling that she must not forget to thank him.

  
He smiled and motioned for her to sit down with him. They sat in the long, soft grass and began a conversation that Margaret could somehow not recall afterwards, except that it had been immensely pleasant. It seemed to her that they spoke to the birds and the flowers, of the earth and the wind, of colours and sounds, and the words filled her up with fantastic gladness. She did not know how long they spoke, time seemed to slide away. They may have been there many days without her noticing, or only a few minutes into which endless hours of delight seemed to be gathered. She forgot her fear and shyness and talked openly and without constraint, laughing and looking Thranduil in the face without timidity. He was so beautiful that she forgot all the lovely green world about her and fed her eyes on his perfect features and sheen of silver hair. She wondered what it would feel like, what its texture was, was it finer and silkier than her own, or was it hard and thick like silver thread?

  
As if thinking the same thoughts as her, Thranduil ran his hand through her cloud of golden hair. She trembled with happiness. And then suddenly, he moved forward, fast as a swooping falcon, and stole a kiss from her half-parted lips.

  
She stared at him with wide-open, surprised eyes. He smiled and leaned forward, kissing her more slowly this time, and pressing her slightly back, into the grass.

  
‘My lord, I must not!’ she exclaimed.

  
‘Why?’ he asked, in a low, sweet voice, heavy and drugging to her senses. ‘Do you have a lover at home to whom you wish to return?’

  
‘No, it is not that,’ she said, stumbling over her words. ‘Only, it is not right—it is not seemly for a common maid to—‘

  
‘Even at a king’s request?’

  
She remained silent.

  
‘Do you not wish it?’ he asked.

  
‘I— I do not dare think, I would not be so impudent as to desire—‘

  
‘Well, think now. What is your desire?’

  
‘I— Yes,’ she said, with sudden decision. ‘I desire this, but I am afraid—‘

  
‘Do not be,’ he said, and then added, ‘What have you to be afraid of?’ and laughed. His laughter drowned all her thoughts, all her worries, all her fears, it was the most alluring sound in the world, the sky and the earth vibrated with it, and it hung echoing in the air, even as they kissed and she fell back beneath him in the long grass.

  
So Margaret became the King’s human lover, not knowing that there was another of her kind in the kingdom. Her time passed in happiness and contentment, and sometimes, thoughts of the outside world began to creep into her mind. She thought of her sister, and marvelled how she should have forgotten her all that time. _But after all_ , thought Margaret, _I haven’t been away so very long._ Then it occurred to her that she had no idea how long she had been there. This puzzled her a good deal, and at last began to unsettle her. The thought of her sister still living with their father in that terrible land began to torment her, and she was shocked that she could have not thought of it before.  
Then the idea came to her that she go to her sister and bring her here, to be away from their father, and live together in happiness. She was so used to having absolute freedom of the forest, that early one morning, she took on the horses and set out for home, without telling anyone.

  
She did not know that Bard saw her as she rode by, and guessed where she was going. He watched her with sadness, knowing what she would find, but knowing that it would do no good to attempt to warn her, for she would not believe him. Besides, any faith he had ever had in action, in his own power, had been drained away. He did not think he could change anything or help anyone now. He had dwelt a long time in the atmosphere of profitless lassitude, and his thoughts had merged with the unchanging flow of the river.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is FINALLY done!!

The young woman he had seen riding away passed out of Bard’s mind almost as fast as she passed out of his sight. He was so absorbed in his own misery that he was not particularly interested in the fate of anyone else. It simply ceased mattering to him. There was nothing to do again the cruel arbitrariness of fate, and if the girl was doomed to suffer, he could not help it one way or the other. So he forgot her as quickly as the water flowed away, and left no trace in his mind.

It was with a shock of surprise, as though he had never seen her before, that Bard saw her, several days later, riding back along the path by the river, riding hard, her hair dishevelled, her clothes torn. She reined in the horse and jumped off. Though he was close by, she did not see him, and as she came closer, he realised that her eyes were blinded with tears. She stumbled among the roots and clinging brambles as she ran brokenly towards the water, her hands pressed against her mouth in utter misery. He heard her half-whimpering weeping, her desperate gasps of frantic desolation, but it did not touch him. He watched her almost impassively, curiously, until she reached the bank and, with almost no hesitation, threw herself into the water.

It was as though life, wild, maniacal, golden and insistent, exploded in Bard’s heart and mind. As he heard the loud splash of her girl’s body hitting the water, saw the golden hair spread like a net over its surface, a jolt ran through him. His breath caught and his heart beat, as if it was beating for the first time in months. A kind of panic rose in his throat, the frantic desire to do something, that desire he had not felt for so long. It sent echoes of memory through his whole life, his past life among the people of Laketown, when he had felt like the master of his own destiny, felt as if the world was his to mould. 

The girl’s body bobbed, inert, upon the river, and began to float away, dragged slowly by the stream. Breaking through the slowness, the laziness, the indifferent, slothful rhythm of that river, of that forest, Bard jumped into the water after her. He managed to catch her around the waist and turned her over, so that her face was out of the water, and pulled her easily towards shore. Once out of the water, her body became a dead weight, and he had to struggle to lift her out. There she lay before him, on the bank, the desperate, dishevelled creature so different from anything else in that forest. He could feel her heart, still beating, fluttering with an unsteady, terribly human pulse.

Weakly, she began coughing, then opened her eyes.

‘No,’ she moaned, her voice broken and chocked with the water still in her throat. ‘No,’ she said again, protesting against life, against the air that she was forced to breathe.

Three days passed before Margaret spoke, and when she did so it was only to tell Bard her name and where she was from. She asked him nothing and wanted to hear nothing. Every time he tried to speak to her, interest her in something, her eyes slid straight past him, into the distance, as though he simply was not there. Bard attempted to care for her and watch over her, but he had the sense that he was only doing it with some tiny fraction of his heart, automatically. He was drained, he had given up the best of himself to passion, to madness, to loyalty, all things that did not in the least matter now, and he had nothing for her. He often forgot she was there at all, even as she sometimes forgot him, as he could see by her faraway face.  
They stayed close to one another, not as companions or friends, but as wanderers in separate, closed-off world, superstitiously holding onto one another for comfort. They no longer spoke to any of the Elves, and the singing voices and laughter they heard from time to time seemed to come from far, far away. In their hearts, they damned the creatures and their uncaring cheer, and most of all, they cursed their fair king. But neither spoke to the other of it, and they spent their days in silence and troubled dreams.

Finally, one day, Margaret asked, ‘What is your name?’

He told her.

‘Where are you from? It seems to me from your eyes that you must have been someone… great and good. A king, perhaps, a warrior?’

‘It does not matter. The place I came from no longer exists.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I left the forest and found that…’ she trailed off, seemingly unable to find words.

‘You could not find your family?’

‘No, I found them. I saw their graves, near the place where our house had stood. My sister… I betrayed my sister. I left her to suffer our father’s cruelty, while I sported here… And now I will never know what happened to her, how she lived, how she died.’

They sat together, staring at the river. Birdsong filled the air. Somehow, Bard could think of nothing to say to comfort her, and had no strength to. A great, calm nothingness seemed to have descended over him forever, spun of sunshine and drowsy breezes. The two of them were simply there, in the forest, in a state of suspended being, emotion dulled, life permanently delayed. They were simply waiting for some termination, most probably death. Both were reluctant to speak of the past, and there was no future.

But when they looked into one another’s eyes, they saw a longing there that they recognised in their own hearts. As Bard’s brown eyes found Margaret’s grey ones, there was always a start, a jolt of likeness, the meeting of eyes haunted by the same grief, their loss echoing between them in a ripple of emotion more eloquent than words. 

One day, they both saw a party of Elves ride by, with the Elvenking at their head. He turned suddenly and looked at them, the two human playthings he had discarded. His expression did not change. It was almost as though he did not recognise them, or was so utterly indifferent to them that they did not interest him in the least. He turned away, his hair gleaming in the sun, and vanished quickly from sight.

‘I wish I could kill him,’ Margaret said.

Bard said nothing.

‘I want to wish I could kill him,’ Margaret amended. ‘I cannot wish it.’

‘Good,’ Bard said. ‘Then he has not changed you and made you wish to kill.’

‘He has stolen my life, and I have no way of doing anything about it,’ she said.

‘No, there is nothing we can do,’ Bard agreed.

They sat for a long while in silence. But somehow, by looking at the two of them together, by holding them in his gaze, Thranduil had united them, had bound them together. Margaret thought about this, and it felt as if the Elvenking had commanded her to stay with Bard now.

‘We cannot go back,’ she said slowly. ‘But we can go forward, can we not?’

‘What do you mean?’ Bard asked.

‘Together, we can leave together. We can start a new life, wherever we come to, in whatever age fate takes us to. We will not be alone.’

Bard did not answer, but their eyes sought one another’s to find that strange bond of sorrow, and by unspoken consent they began to make their way to the borders of the forest. It took them three days to reach the edge of the wood, and they barely spoke the whole way, each wrapped in their own thoughts, taking strangely reluctant leave of the world which had blessed and destroyed them.

At the edge of the forest, they both looked back, almost in the same motion. The path they had come down was dark now, mysterious, and still alluring. The country of endless summer and inhuman joy lay at the end of it, the country of merry song and laughter. They saw themselves, as if from a high hill, standing there at the end of that road, a man and a young girl, weak and unhappy and dishevelled, and so small at the end of that long way.

Then they turned and looked before them again. Instinctively, they took one another’s hands like children afraid of losing one another, and stepped out of the forest, into whatever world awaited them there.


End file.
